


movements

by kitschy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, INDEFINITE HIATUS, On Hiatus, One-Sided Attraction, because she is a minor and erik is not a pedophile, but for now? teenage suffering, it'll work out when she's an adult, that's it that's the story it's an unrequited crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21603580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitschy/pseuds/kitschy
Summary: (NOTE: THIS FIC IS ABANDONED!!!!!!!!!!! for now because i don't like the way i characterized... anything. i'm leaving it up in case i ever decide to go back and fix it! this is suppoooosed to be pre-canon of my fic "coming home," but DON'T refer to this because i changed a looooot of my ideas heheheh)She's been falling for him since they met, that odd day. It takes him a little longer to feel the same.A progression, of sorts.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi, thanks for clicking! :) funny story: this is actually the backstory of this long AU that i have in my head where Christine has a BIG ass crush on Erik for all her adolescent years, then goes to Juilliard, then comes back and things... progress. that AU starts when she comes home from Juilliard, but to procrastinate writing that, i'm writing this: the prequel! super cool!
> 
> there will be more chapters of this, but ideally i will also work on the real thing and get a first chapter of that up sometime soon. in the meantime, enjoy!
> 
> p.s. there is no underage stuff and will not be any in future--in this fic, Erik's attitude towards Christine is "this kid can sing and doesn't get on my god damn nerves" so do not interpret anything dirty please
> 
> p.p.s. i didn't purposely base this on any one source, but i'm most familiar with alw, leroux, and sort of kay, so that's what's influencing me, if you were wondering! but this universe is very... alternate so i don't think it matters much

They meet in one of the back halls of the Palais Garnier: the scrawny fifteen-year-old of the _École de danse_ and the assistant artistic director of the _Opéra national de Paris_. Christine has a habit of taking ridiculous routes on the way in for rehearsal, arriving half an hour early to wander alone and sing—she hates for other people to hear her voice, doesn't even like the sound of it herself, but can't stop trying to make the music the way some of the girls in the opera chorus do. She always hopes that by some magic, one day she will open her mouth and her voice will come out clear as a spring, flying from her throat, filling the air. It doesn't happen, of course. But the thought is enough to keep her going.

Today, it's a piece from _Die_ _Zauberflöte_ , adjusted a little lower than the real thing: Pamina's song of anguish, but she feels pretty good. She has trouble getting around the Germansounds, but she's hitting the higher notes okay. 

Erik is emerging from a hidden passage after a restless night underground, itching to snap at André or Firmin or Reyer or _somebody_ , in an utterly dour mood—until he hears an angel singing around a corner. Closing a trapdoor behind him, he stops and frowns, wondering if he has finally become sleep-deprived enough to start hallucinating.

But no. The angel's voice cracks, and she stops singing to go, "Ugh! Why do I _suck?"_ Another moment, and she goes on.

He follows the music, certain no harm can come of it.

Christine finishes her last note with a little vibrato, something she's been developing, and for a second, she sounds... sort of nice. She begins to smile to herself when a voice comes echoing from behind.

"Brava," it says, and Christine stops at the sound of it: dry, but so very sonorous. Like an angel's, if Gabriel was a little more sarcastic, maybe. She turns slowly; at the end of the hall stands a man in a ridiculously tidy suit, tailcoat and waistcoat and all. He takes a hand from behind his back and holds it up for a moment, and without thinking, she waves at him.

"Thanks," she calls back. "I mean, not really."

"Yes, really." He cocks his head. There is a mask, she realizes, covering half his face—God, she really _is_ lost in her head sometimes—but as his lips twitch in an amused smile, it seems like less than a top concern. "I do work at an opera house, mademoiselle. I know a strong voice when I hear one."

"You mean… _this_ opera house?" she asks. "I've never seen you. And I spend, like, all my time here." At least, if she tells this story later and Nadir asks her why she was talking to a strange man, she has a defense: he works at the Palais. No way is he a kidnapper.

"Yes, well—just a moment, I'm sorry." He nods in her direction. "May I come over there? I prefer not to make acquaintances at this volume."

Or maybe he _is_ a kidnapper, because she is far too trusting, but hey, he talks like somebody out of a Jane Austen novel. Christine is trying her very best with _Emma_ right now, and this man, she thinks, is just like Mr. Knightley. All proper and whatnot. She smiles to herself.

She's also never been asked whether or not somebody can come near her. So that's weird, and she figures it has something to do with the mask, but then he's in front of her and she doesn't feel threatened in the slightest, even though she barely comes up to his chest, and he's standing with his arms crossed and studying her with striking eyes. One of them, on his right side—the masked side—is a startling blue, the other a deep brown, and never mind, she absolutely feels threatened, because there is no other reason she should tense up and suck in a breath when those eyes meet hers. Maybe her body is trying to tell her to run? But that can’t be right either. She’s utterly rooted to the spot.

The man clears his throat. "As I was saying.” Up close, she realizes he must be a singer himself. The rich timbre of his voice screams talent, screams speechless audiences, perfect art. “If you have not seen me, it's because I don't wish to be seen; your catching me here was a stroke of luck. Or misfortune, perhaps. That remains to be seen." Before she can think of how to respond, he goes on: "I have been with the Opéra for quite some time, so you'll accept my compliment, hm? You're very talented for a girl of, ah, twelve?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I'm fifteen," she says, rather sharply, then, "Sorry."

"Ah. Do not be. It was my mistake." He shrugs. Inwardly, Erik rolls his eyes at his own stupidity, but in fairness, it's been years since he's spoken to a child. He's not sure whether he should be treating her in a way that's more... friendly, but he's not sure how one would do that, either. He offers a hand. "It's been a pleasure thus far—"

"Oh, sorry," says the girl, eyes widening, "Am I holding you up? It's fine if you have to be somewhere. I don't know why you would have time to stand around and talk to a kid."

Erik suppresses a laugh, lest he seem condescending. "I wasn't going anywhere. I simply thought I was overdue to introduce myself." He raises an eyebrow. "If you would allow me to finish my sentence."

He means it to be a joke, but the child shrinks guiltily, and so without thinking, he moves to shake her hand—but his touch only seems to shock her, and he draws back immediately. _Idiot._ The girl has acted as though the mask isn't there, but he must not forget himself. Adults are usually frightened of him; why should this child be any different?

After a moment, she says, "I'm sorry," and he frowns. For someone with such a voice, she is terribly insecure.

"What for? I believe it's my turn to apologize, mademoiselle. You ought to take a break from it." He is about to offer his hand again, but stops just in time. "My name is Erik."

That earns him a small grin. "I'm Christine."

As she speaks, Christine sees Erik's face light up with recognition, and is he smiling? Well, no. Not quite.

"Christine Daaé," he says, "Of course. You're Nadir Khan's niece."

"Yeah, how—"

"Nadir is my oldest friend in the world. How serendipitous." He hesitates. "Meaning—"

"I know what serendipitous means," she retorts, then shakes her head. "I keep sounding rude."

"Not at all," he says lightly. "I should expect a child in Madame Khan's care to be clever."

Christine snorts, but there's an unexpected rush of warmth. Usually, nobody cares about her vocabulary; she's just a _petit rat_. "You don't think I get it from my uncle?"

"No. That man is a fool. He does insist on being _my_ friend, after all."

This time, she catches the joke and laughs, and Erik's smile is one of surprise.

”And what are you doing here, Miss Daaé?” he asks. “If you have come to see the opera, I must tell you, you are several days early.”

”Oh. No.” She feels only a flash of disappointment that he doesn’t recognize her from the stage. “I’m in the ballet school _,_ monsieur. Rehearsal isn’t for fifteen minutes, but… well, you know what I was doing.”

His brow furrows, and Christine feels oddly like she is about to be reprimanded. “A dancer? You don’t study at the _conservatoire?”_

“No, I—"

“A crime!” he exclaims, and she laughs, because how melodramatic!—but he goes on with a severe shake of his head. “I am quite serious, mademoiselle. You have a gift. I beg you not to squander it.”

"I'm not..." She looks down to stop herself from beaming. Nobody has ever labelled her as _gifted_ in any way, and it is only polite to deny it, but for a moment, she wants desperately to believe him. She glances back up to see him studying her, and prays the flush doesn't show on her cheeks. "You only heard me sing a little bit."

"I heard more than enough," Erik says. For an adolescent girl to have such clarity of tone, such range—to have a more pleasant voice, frankly, than several of the hack sopranos those fool managers have applauded—it is magnificent. Certainly the young Daaé needs instruction on many points, starting, he notes, with breath support. But there is great potential in her.

He thinks quickly. Knowing Nadir's situation, and his refusal in the past to accept help, he suspects the _conservatoire_ is out of the Khans' budget. But if Christine were to receive tutoring for free... 

He speaks up just as she begins to shift uncomfortably. "Let me give you a lesson or two." Her lips part in surprise as he speaks. "If you do not wish to continue, we will not, but I daresay you may enjoy yourself." He offers the barest of smiles, the most he is used to giving. Most likely, she does not notice it; she stares off somewhere, looking pensive, as she considers his proposition. She slouches somewhat; they will have to fix her posture.

Already, he begins to mull over what arias to teach her, and he feels a flicker of excitement. As grateful as he is for the lack of chaos in his life, he longs for something to _do,_ something with tangible results. Surely teaching a talented pupil would be more fulfilling than overseeing the affairs of the Garnier, working alongside those imbecile managers, and scratching out endless compositions that will likely never see the stage. But with Christine—he is certain he can make her into a worthy diva, if she will give him the chance, and, he has to admit, it will be immensely satisfying to see her succeed and know he has helped.

Finally, she straightens and speaks. "I would love to, but..." All prospects disappear. Once again, Erik is not sure what he is going to do tomorrow, or the day after that.

But Christine is not done. "I don't think my family can afford it," she admits, looking up at him. There is genuine apology in her gaze, and he knows it: she _does_ want to sing. He cannot let her abandon the music.

So he waves a hand dismissively. "Did I not mention my friendship with Nadir? The lessons will be free of charge."

"No!" Her eyes light up with what looks like panic. "No, I can't accept that."

"If you are only concerned about payment, I cannot accept your refusal," Erik counters, and her hands start fidgeting, a tic he has himself in moments of anxiety.

"Monsieur—"

"It's nonsense," he continues, sensing her hesitance and deciding firmly to push back. "I make quite enough off of this place, as you can imagine. Money is no object. And really, Miss Daaé, when do you believe you will next be offered a free education in something you love?"

The girl simply stares back at him, knotting her fingers together, looking utterly trapped. 

Erik wonders if he is being selfish.

It's a trait that's been pointed out to him many times before. And now, just as he's becoming aware of his growing sense of ennui in life, it is only natural he should leap at the chance to take on a student. He's no idea how to teach, but the struggle of learning to do so is infinitely more appealing than the repetitive silence of his days. He will learn new songs to accompany her, and perhaps time _away_ from his compositions is just what he needs to forge ahead with them. Even negotiating with Madame Giry for time away from rehearsals—the ballet mistress is ruthless with her girls—might be enjoyable. He's always rather liked Adeline, but never had an excuse to speak with her. 

Yes, appointing himself master of Christine's education is an undertaking certain to improve his life. But if Christine herself does not want it—whether because of money or because he is frightening—he cannot force her hand.

"Ah," he says quietly, "Forgive me. I should not be so insistent." He shakes his head and attempts to meet her gaze with understanding. "The choice is entirely yours; I will not blame you for saying no."

Christine narrows her eyes, and she rather looks like Nadir as she does so. He remembers vividly the day his friend received the news of his adored older sister's death—how Rookheya sobbed that Madame Daaé had left behind a young daughter. He remembers hearing of Nadir's brother-in-law falling ill, and, two years after that, Nadir tracing the rim of his whiskey glass and telling Erik that his niece was now, for all intents and purposes, his daughter. Erik feels a stab of guilt that he has never met the child before today, and that now that he has, he's immediately tried to bend her to his will.

Christine, meanwhile, is as dumbfounded by Erik's intensity as much as its sudden cooling. He'd probably be the same as a teacher, she realizes, demanding and sharp.

But there's something so very musical about him. The poetic way he speaks, his self-assured posture: to her, they're a swelling overture, and she doesn't want to miss the rest of the show. She looks at him now, with his hands folded neatly, his mismatched eyes wide and earnest. Though her aunt and uncle will definitely berate her for it later, she can't deny what she wants.

"Okay." She tries for a smile. "A lesson or two. I'm in."

Erik brightens, and though his tone remains even, she can feel the crescendo in his energy. "Indeed? That is a pleasant surprise." He points directly at her, and without thinking, she straightens a little. "Now, we have much work to do. I shall see you tomorrow at eight o'clock sharp, if you are available?"

Christine's eyes widen. "Eight in the morning?" she asks, horrified, and for the first time, he laughs from somewhere deep in his chest. The sound makes her stomach flop.

"Of course. Don't all rehearsals start at eleven?. We will not have three-hour lessons, I promise, but I would like some extra time to gauge your level. Besides, I am sure you will want a break afterwards."

Christine is used to waking up at nine, earliest; sometimes it gets to ten before Meg gives her a call. But as the formidable man in front of her begins to tap his foot—unconsciously, probably, but still with mild impatience—she can't imagine telling him she likes to sleep in. "Sure!" she chirps. "Eight is fine."

"Good. I look forward to it." His lips, or what she can see of them, curl upwards, and she feels her face break into a grin. "Speaking of ballet rehearsals, you had best not be late for yours now, Miss Daaé." And with that, Erik nods courteously, spins on his heel, and is off.

As he turns around the corner, Christine is half-certain she dreamt the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! hope you enjoyed a little bit! school is currently screwing me up the ass, so i don't know how long exactly until i'll be able to write more, but i do intend to return soonish :)
> 
> p.s. at the beginning, Christine is singing "Ach, ich fühl's, es ist verschwunden" because she's a nerd. and let's be real she is not singing the Queen of the Night aria at this point. sorry Chrissy love u


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm finally back! wasn't planning to be gone so long (college is wild, friends) but i'm finally on break! 
> 
> our absolute FAVORITES Nadir and Rookheya Khan are here and you can look forward to this being an AU where they do not suffer at all! (also in case u did not think about it, their being Christine's aunt/uncle means she's half Iranian ("Persian" if ur one of those) because there are maybe 3 AUs out there with woc Christine? basically, to my fellow wocs, ur welcome)
> 
> another note: the sad thing about the Palais Garnier is that it mostly does ballets now! the Opéra Bastille is where the Paris Opera company (l'OpÉrA nAtIoNaL dE pArIs) uuusually does their thing now. but we are pretending that isn't real bc we love the Opéra Garnier. basically, i did my research but am ignoring it, just like when i write essays! enjoy the chapter :)

At seven in the morning, Christine’s alarm rings. She hits snooze. At seven-fifteen, it rings again, and she turns it off.

At seven-thirty, she realizes she has to leave the house in ten minutes if she’s going to walk to the Garnier—which she is, because walking to the Métro would actually be slower, and she can’t justify wasting money on a cab—and leaps out of bed. Three of those minutes fly by as she pulls on her leotard, a t-shirt, and jeans, stuffing tights for rehearsal and a sweater into her backpack, and tumbles down the stairs. Nadir and Rookheya exchange an amused glance as she slings her bag off and dashes into the kitchen to search for food.

After a moment, Rookheya calls, “ _Aziz,_ did you check the table?”

Christine pops back out, sees the bowl of cereal and mug of chai waiting for her, and smiles sheepishly.

“Shoot.” She slides into the seat next to her aunt and presents her cheek for a kiss, which she gets. “Thanks, Auntie.”

“Actually, it was my idea,” says Nadir, “So you're welcome." He grins as his niece rolls her eyes. "I figured you wouldn’t wake up, and I know Erik will be mad if you’re late.”

"Mad?" Christine asks through a mouthful of cereal. "How mad?

Since the news last night of her deal with their old friend, Nadir hasn’t stopped joking about how badly she’s going to regret it. She figures that’s the nature of his friendship with Erik—incessant insults, because apparently, men are incapable of expressing affection the normal way—but she can’t stifle her anxiety about the lesson, and her uncle, as much as she loves him, is _not_ helping.

Even if she is on time, will her voice be off today? She has no idea how real singers always sound good; as of now, her skill on a given day is pretty much up to chance. Maybe she’ll crack. Maybe he’ll realize that her voice isn’t as good as he thought it was.

Or maybe she’ll just be late, and he’ll hate her before they even get started.

Rookheya gives Christine a look. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she chides before glaring at her husband. “And you _,_ idiot, don’t frighten her. Erik isn’t half as scary as he wants to be.”

“Yeah, he is.” Nadir widens his eyes teasingly at Christine. “Piss him off and he’ll send the Opera Ghost after you.”

“The Opera Ghost?” The joke is almost relieving; a ghost is the least of her worries. “Never heard of him.”

“Yes, the Opera Ghost’s days are over.” Keya looks questioningly at Nadir. “I hope?”

“They are until Christine is late to her singing lesson.” He laughs as his niece shovels down the last of her breakfast, knocks back her chai, and runs to the door, putting a hand to the wall as she slips on her sneakers.

“I know that’s fake,” she says as she picks up her bag, “But I’m going now anyway. Be back after rehearsal. Bye!” She just catches the _bye, kiddo_ and _love you, sweetie_ as the door shuts behind her.

She's new enough to Paris that the city still stuns her. Her French is fluent, which lets her blend in while still feeling like a giddy tourist most of the time, and she breathes in appreciatively as she starts briskly down the sidewalk. There's a slight chill; sure enough, a drizzle begins to fall, so gentle it feels like mist. Instead of plugging in her headphones, Christine listens to the rhythmic pat of her shoes on the ground and the sounds of leaves stirring in the breeze, and smiles.

Contentment is still a novelty to her. Three years after her father's death, she feels normal most days, something that once seemed unfathomable. She actually _wants_ the future ahead of her. Recently, she has begun to feel the stirrings of ambition, too. It's a stark contrast to the constant, oppressive urge to sleep that plagued her on first moving in with her new family, in this new place. And where the other ballet girls seem to shake under the weight of their goals, she feels energized by them.

She wants to sing. Until now, she hasn't had a reasonable path to it, but she's wanted it all the time she's practiced ballet in the great halls of of the Paris Opéra. Even with no hope, even as she hears the flying coloratura of "Der Hölle Rache" and knows her voice can't do it, she wants it more than _anything._ As the fresh air cools her skin, it feels good to admit it to herself.

And though Erik can't be right about her potential—if she believes him, will she find some?—maybe someday, oh, she hopes someday... As the Palais comes into view, she speeds up. Seven-fifty now, and before she knows it, she is pushing open the Rue Scribe entrance, shivering in the cold of the opera house.

It's only then that Christine realizes she has no idea where to find her mysterious tutor.

 _How the hell,_ she thinks, _did you not think to ask him where to meet?_ As Monsieur Reyer, the musical director, walks past, studying some papers, she approaches him, the fear of her new teacher's ire outweighing any nervousness about talking to an adult.

"Excuse me, monsieur?" she says, and she's lucky he hears her, for the volume at which it comes out. He looks up and cocks his head, a look of strained recognition crossing his face.

"Good morning, mademoiselle. Can I help you?" His face clears slightly. "Oh—have the instructors called you girls early today?"

"No, no. I'm actually, um. Do you know where I can find Monsieur... Erik?" That sounds disrespectful. First order of business, once she tracks him down: ask his last name.

M. Reyer blanches. "Have you done something?" he asks with a strange laugh. "A man of his position doesn't usually concern himself with students."

 _A man of his position_ makes him sound older than he looks, a shadowy figure of authority, and a new feeling stirs in her. She can't put her finger on it, but it multiplies horribly when M. Reyer next speaks.

"Mademoiselle," he says carefully, forehead creasing, "You're all right?"

Does she look not all right? She brings a hand up to her hair, the most likely culprit for disordering her appearance, but besides some frizziness, it's fine. "Um, yeah?" She glances down at her clothes, and again, everything seems okay. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." M. Reyer laughs that awkward laugh again, but surely if he was trying to warn her of something, he wouldn't brush it off. "Only... well, he is probably in his office, next to André and Firmin's. The third floor. Maybe I could show you where it is?"

As he watches her expectantly, it hits her. Erik doesn't usually concern himself with students.What she's really being told is: he doesn't usually summon female dancers, young women, to his office. And even though Rookheya trusts Erik, all of her warnings come to mind in a single moment, and Christine wraps her fingers tight around the straps of her backpack.

"Oh, no, I know the way." She steps back, wanting to escape the director's off-putting remarks, the churning in her stomach at his concern. "I'll just—yeah, I'll just go up. Thank you."

"If you're sure." He nods uncertainly. "Madame Blanche should still expect you on time, I assume?"

"Yeah, totally." She adjusts her bag on her shoulders. "I'll be there." Before he can say anything else, she thanks him and scurries off.

In the cramped hall of the management offices, her heart rate begins to pick up. In the silence, she has to work to stifle her thoughts, repeating, _he's a friend of the family, you're being paranoid, you're not some kind of victim,_ and, over it all, _you are so God damn stupid._ Worst comes to worst, she can use her backpack as a weapon, right?

When she knocks on the door to the right of the managers', the one at the very end of the hall, it swings open immediately. Christine just about shrieks.

Erik ignores her jump of surprise. "You are late," he says, the same way someone might say, _it's Tuesday._

"Yep," she says, her voice coming out tight. "I mean, I'm really sorry. I got caught up talking to Monsieur Reyer. Also, what's your last name?"

He blinks. _Stupid, stupid._ "That is an unnecessary question. You may address me as _sir."_ He raises an eyebrow, the visible one, anyway, and his wry charm from yesterday makes a brief appearance; it eases her slightly. "Reyer was not an annoyance, I hope?"

"Not at all." She is hyper-aware of the way he's looking at her, and he's acting normal, but she can't be too careful, right? "I think he thought I was in trouble or something," she adds hesitantly, and _crap,_ that is way too obvious.

It takes him a second to register her meaning, but when he does, she regrets speaking. A stony look crosses his visible features.

"Ah. I suppose I do look rather like a criminal," he says bitterly. "I can hardly blame him for fearing for a young girl."

When Christine struggles helplessly for a response—how do you say, _I know you're not a pedophile, but also, I'm a woman and I have to be sure?—_ his face flashes with something pained she can't decipher. It disappears in a moment, but so does the clench in his jaw.

"It is nobody's fault," he goes on, and she wonders if he's telling her or himself. "In truth, you are right to be wary. I imagine as a dancer, lots of men make... unwanted overtures."

She nods. He has no idea—she's avoided anything too scary herself, but not all her friends have been as fortunate.

As if hearing the thought, he nods solemnly. And then, suddenly, that eye contact of his that turns her to stone—a stone in the sun, still as anything, but full of warmth. "I cannot imagine," he murmurs. "But if we are to begin, I must ask you to trust me." How did she forget the colors of his eyes so quickly?

"I am not an incredibly sociable man." In Erik's quiet tone, she senses the kind of isolation she's all too familiar with, but then it's gone, and she might have imagined it. "That is to say: if I am ever untoward, you must tell me, all right?"

The same expression flickers across his face as moments ago, and she realizes it's guilt, or something like it. No: self-consciousness. Before she can think her words through, she blurts, "It's not because of the mask."

Silence. He regards her for several seconds. "No," he says finally, "You do not strike me that way."

Without warning, he turns and walks back to his desk, grabbing a stack of papers and straightening them.

"Naturally, we will not have your lessons in here. Come—I have arranged for a practice room." With casual grace, he strides past her, and she's left taking huge steps to catch up.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't make conversation. Christine wants to apologize, but she can't think that way; she hasn't done anything wrong. He said so himself, and besides, it'd be an insult to other women, right?

But she can't not feel bad. Or feel _something_ , anyway. His _I cannot imagine_ hints at empathy far beyond what he lets on; that and his encouragement yesterday... he glances back, now, to check that she is close behind, and beyond the regret, she feels something new left in her by their conversation. He's considerate, is what it is. She tries to keep pace, and it occurs to her that she can smell his cologne, something almost sweet, maybe peppermint?

 _Who's the creep now?_ says her brain. She shakes her head and focuses on walking, entertaining herself by watching the elegant flicks of Erik's tailcoat.

Before long, they arrive at a hallway near the dressing rooms. When Erik sweeps open the door, the first thing she sees is a glossy grand piano, and he looks on approvingly as she grins; stepping into the spacious practice room, she notices a small window, rain pattering soothingly against it, and to her left—

"A mirror?" she says, with a little more attitude than she intends. Or a lot more; she doesn't miss Erik's amused shake of the head. She wrinkles her nose at the _entire wall_ that reflects her, her tutor, and the pretty space around them.

"Believe me," he says, "I do not like mirrors, especially of this size—" Christine curses herself for bring up the mask again, in a way— "But it is important that you watch your own posture, and in any case, all the larger dressing rooms are designed this way." As he sits before the piano, she sets down her backpack and reaches in. He plays a bright chord, a D major, she recognizes, and looks up as she pulls on her sweater.

"Juilliard," he reads aloud. "I assume you do not attend."

"No," she answers, puzzled, "It's an arts university in New York."

"I know that. I was making a joke."

"Oh," she says. Erik looks down at the piano, and with the bare side of his face to her, she can see his lips twitch in a tiny smile. _Oh_ , she thinks again, a funny feeling in her chest. For the first time, he looks young. Not that he looked old before, she amends to herself, but now he could be twenty, twenty-two.

"Do you plan to go?" He asks, eyes flicking back to hers, and she shrugs, shifting her gaze to the keys his hands lie on.

"I mean, you can't just _plan_ to go to Juilliard."

"Would you like to?"

"Maybe," she admits, still avoiding his eyes. He plays another chord, C major now, and she notices his hands are... defined. Thin, but artful. "It's just a dumb dream, anyway. They take, like, six percent of applicants."

He hesitates. "Do not count yourself out," he says, and it's unreasonable, but she's disappointed that it's all she gets. He plays the C again, then its triad. "We will warm up with scales, and afterwards, I have a simple piece to help me gauge your level. You are familiar with _O mio babbino caro_ , I take it?"

The name rings a bell, so she figures it's safe to lie, at least for now. "Yeah, for sure."

"Miss Daaé." Okay, bad idea. Erik's eyes widen, and she shrinks. "You know _Ach, ich fühl's_ well enough to transpose it in your head, but not the most famous aria of all time?"

"Hey!" She doesn't exactly have an excuse, but she _is_ going to be defensive. "I don't know. _Die Zauberflöte_ was my dad's favorite opera. He put it on in the car all the time, and..." She stops herself. She didn't mean to start on a sob story, but he probably doesn't want to hear it. "Sorry. Anyway, that's why I know it."

"Ah." She expects to see pity in his mismatched eyes, but when she looks, there's only a sad wistfulness. "Your father had excellent taste. And he taught you fine German pronunciations, it seems."

Christine lights up. "Actually, he spoke German. And Farsi, too—he learned it for my mom. And English, and French and Swedish, of course, and a few others." Now she's rambling, but Erik looks to be listening intently, head tilted to one side. She hasn't talked about her father so casually in a long, long time. "I won't list them all, but oh! He spoke Russian, which is so cool. I want to learn all his languages."

"That's quite respectable." Erik's small smile is back, and somehow, its slightness makes it genuine. "I know all those languages myself. I would be happy to teach you." She notices another thing, too: where his lips start to disappear under the mask, they're malformed, swollen and redder than the rest of his mouth. With a flush, she looks back at his eyes; it would be rude to stare, and she is not sure why she wants to.

"I'd like that," she says, forcing herself to re-focus. "But one thing at a time, right? Since I don't even know one super-famous aria. God, I'm incompetent."She tries to keep a straight face, but proves unable. To his credit, and her pleased surprise, her tutor plays along with the joke.

"Indeed. Thank you for reminding me." His brow shoots up. "Make no mistake, Miss Daaé, I am thoroughly disappointed. You have made a dismal impression."

She snorts, pretends she doesn't enjoy the teasing. "Noted. Now, the scales, shall we?" Even to her own ears, the attempt at mockery sounds timid, but she swears she hears him snicker to himself.

"Certainly. You will sing on _ah._ Face the mirror, please." She does. When their eyes meet in their reflection, his smile is gone, but the ease remains. "Shoulders back—good—and remember to breathe through your nose. I will stop you to make corrections." With incredible speed, his fingers skim up and down the octave, and her heart skips a beat. "Let's begin."

Christine breathes in, deep and slow, and sings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to address that Christine's Woman Alarms™ should have been going off bc like... sis... they should have... ladies, even when a man is not truly shady, u gotta watch urself!! and if this was Erik from another AU he might have been TRULY truly shady (i say as if i don't read those fics lmao)
> 
> also, i relate to Christine in that someone can be not-mean to be for one (1) second and i fall in love with them
> 
> p.s. o mio babbino caro, while very famous, is not THAT "simple" erik just doesn't know anything about 15-year-olds. i am sure there are 15-year-olds who could kill it but not this one folks


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> erik: (: ?  
> christine, a besotted fool: ummmmMm  
> erik: i can't believe she hates me  
> (keep reading for the thrilling resolution)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhhh my god i really am SO sorry for not updating consistently... i am a procrastinator... all i can promise u all is that more IS coming! also sorry for the not-a-summary summary. i think i'm funny. i am not

A month and a half have slipped by when Erik finally declares them done with _O mio babbino caro._ (Of course, they have worked on other songs, and on theory, but he has insisted that she master this piece for her repertoire.) Today, as Christine’s voice fades on her last note, a smooth, controlled diminuendo, he holds the last chord of the accompaniment, letting the music remain in the air like a warm haze; after a moment, for which he briefly shuts his eyes, he shifts on the piano bench to face her.

“Perfect.” The word is spoken quietly and evenly, and though only a word, it is the highest praise he’s given her since their first meeting. Still, the way the girl melts, eyes going wide, seems rather an overreaction.

“Thank you, sir. But it can’t be _perfect_ , can it?” Christine says, and Erik cocks an eyebrow. Her words are only half-serious, but nonetheless, she continues to fail at taking compliments. He wonders, not for the first time, how a man defined by self-loathing can erase the insecurities of a teenage girl.

“I suppose you are right. What might I say instead, then, Miss Daaé?”

She thinks for a moment. “Illustrious?" she supplies brightly. "A bravura performance?”

He nods. Her eloquence has ceased to take him by surprise, and she can only improve. To that end, he occasionally recommends her some of his favorite poems and essays; in return, she comes back with astute opinions, and expects them now. Perhaps it’s beyond the scope of his position to give her what she essentially treats as homework, but she hasn’t shown any sign of complaint.

“The latter, yes,” says Erik. “You would better use illustrious to describe something long-standing and well-regarded—a career, perhaps.”

“Oh, sorry. I'm dumb.” She grins, genuinely light-hearted, but while he understands she does not _mean_ it, it makes him frown.

“Do not be ridiculous. I don’t feel _perfect_ is wrong, per se. You have mastered every technical aspect of the piece, and the theatricality comes naturally to you, when you let it.” He presses his lips together, and then it comes to him: “It is like a mathematical limit. You are not perfect, but you have come as close as possible, such that the remaining distance is negligible.”

Now, Christine looks down at her hands, pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt over them. (She has explained before that she calls this “sweater paws,” which he finds silly, but endearing.)

“Um, I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t…” 

“I see.” He interrupts her to save her the embarrassment. Damn him—of course she does not know, but it is not her fault. “My mistake, mademoiselle. I can hardly expect the good ballet mistresses to be teaching you calculus.”

With anyone else, he delights in the superiority of his intellect, the way people struggle to keep up and flounder in pretending they understand. Any advantage he can have—knowledge, manners, fine dress—levels the balance of power between himself and the world, a balance that, God knows, has never been in his favor. But having a child look up to him is different.

For whatever reason, Christine is becoming more self-conscious around him with time, exponentially more with every lesson. Every attempt of his to be likable makes things worse. Generally, she is cheerful, but when her words border on teasing, she is visibly regretful where she used to giggle at herself; when her voice is in poor condition, she stifles any emotional response, but shuts down entirely. For the rest of the lesson, she will follow his instructions without looking at him, without looking at her own reflection, without so much as a ghost of a smile.

Worst of all, Erik often gets the sense that he is making her feel stupid. He hates it. He hasn’t the slightest idea how to manage his own emotions, let alone how to calm those of an adolescent girl, and he is hapless and awkward when it comes to the art of encouragement.

“Well,” Christine says softly, “Anyway, I think I understand the simile. Thank you.”

“No thanks are needed.” He shrugs. “Onwards, yes? Your voice needs a break, and I believe we said we would practice sight-reading today.” It is a lie—in fact, he's promised to teach her a little piano—but there is nothing like annoyance, he has learned, to rid someone of their uneasiness. And he is far from opposed to Christine's snark.

“Uh, did we?” As predicted, she lets an expression of distaste cross her features. "I mean, do we have to?"

“Why, any great prima donna must be an adept sight-reader. And you do want to become one, do you not?” Erik gives her a knowing look. “Can you guess which diva of ours cannot sight-read?” That brings a tiny smile to her face, and he makes a show of huffing. “It is not that she is an unskilled singer, you know—Reyer and the managers are not _such_ idiots—but little details differentiate between an acceptable performer and a magnificent one. And I don’t intend to make the former out of you.”

Christine’s smile has grown a little. Once, he thought it improper to speak his mind about his colleagues and employees with her, and it probably _is_ in bad form, but his pupil seems to appreciate his confidence. Also, he cannot help himself.

“I guess I don’t mind that much,” she says in pretend reluctance, and he dares to hope she is relaxing. “You may inflict your sight-reading exercises upon me.”

Her mockery of the way he speaks is getting rather good, but _t_ _hat_ is one compliment he will never give.

“Thank you for your permission.” He produces a page of simple melodies, composed and penned by himself. “Shall we, my dear?”

The endearment is an improvisation, of sorts. Occasionally, Nadir and Rookheya bring her to lessons themselves to say hello to him (that is, to pester him or check in on him, respectively), and they shower their niece with words of affection; he figures it will make her feel comfortable.

To his horror, it does the exact opposite. Christine turns a deep red, surprising, given her complexion, and with a stab of panic, he recalls their conversation on the day of their first lesson, the somber implication that men have been… inappropriate with her. Damn him again. Just when he is making progress, trying to be a good teacher, a mentor, even, with whom she feels comfortable, he ruins it.

“Oh, goodness," Erik says quickly, "I am very sorry. That was less than proper.” She looks at the floor. Shifting a moment, not knowing what else to do, he continues. “I meant nothing by it, I assure you. But I do understand if you are put-off. Is there any way—“

“Sir.” He’s grateful when she cuts him off, eyes darting up. “It’s fine, really.” She looks more embarrassed than offended. “I don’t mind at all. I was just surprised. But seriously, it’s not improper, it’s—um. Yeah, you get it.”

Anxiously, he asks, “Truly, Miss Daaé? It doesn't bother you?”

“Yeah. For real.” He might expect her to lie here (he can hardly imagine her saying _actually, no, I find your words to be highly inappropriate),_ but as she maintains eye contact, she seems to soften. He has a knack for sensing disingenuousness, and however Christine feels about him, she is nothing if not genuine.

A growing affection, he realizes, is also what pushed him to call her _my dear._ He might seem strange to her—well, he _is_ somewhat strange—but she continues to come back, to throw herself into his lessons, and, more than any adult he knows, treat him like he is any man. Well, she tries to treat him that way, and in any case, she doesn't treat him like an absolute monster. If she is being honest, he will probably use the endearment again.

Ah. But not _now_. The silence has gone on for far too long.

“All right,” he says, and turns quickly back to the piano. Christine frowns, and he cannot help but feel she expected him to say more, which is fair, because he has not spoken even a fraction of his thoughts. He curses himself for lacking all social grace, but such as it is—all he can do is move on. “Let us start with this one. This is your first note. You have fifteen seconds, and then we will sing the phrase in unison.” He flashes her what he hopes is a smile. “An octave apart, of course.”

She makes no reply but a nod, and the ensuing silence makes him so uncomfortable that after just ten seconds, he bids her begin, unable to stand his own awkwardness. As they sing together, he feels her relax, but he cannot help wondering if the rapport he felt with her upon their meeting—that strange sense of amiability—will continue to deteriorate.

Then, he wonders whether it ever existed in the first place, or if he has become so desperate for human connection as to imagine anyone could feel at ease with him at all.

* * *

About a week and a half later, he is late for their Friday evening session. Taking long strides through the halls, he realizes he is missing his tailcoat, but having had to double back to his office already, he will have to make do without it; as he takes his last few steps towards their practice room, he rehearses his apology. He does not hear the giggling until he has already twisted the doorknob.

But there it is: peals of laughter from inside, which, barring the idea that Christine is insane, means she has company.

In the second or two it takes to open the door, several possibilities flash through Erik’s mind. Almost all of them tell him to close the door right now, but it’s too late, and in any case, he has every right to be there, so he will face whatever-it-is. Maybe there is a tuft of ballerinas awaiting him, and Christine is regaling them with tales of her odd instructor. Maybe she has a boyfriend in there—oh, God, maybe they are kissing, which will require of him a lecture he is unprepared to give. Or maybe she has a girlfriend, one of the other _petits rats_ , which will merit a far, far more awkward conversation, for how does one say _I care for you regardless of your sexual orientation_ without actually saying those words? To be sure, outright admitting to affection would kill Erik instantly, even faster than discussing sexuality with his student. He is not built for vulnerability.

All this passes through his head quick enough to give him whiplash, but the door is open, and it takes him a moment to register what he is looking at. His pupil is simply sitting and talking on the room’s chaise with another girl, easy smiles on both their faces. There is no indication of anything romantic between them. He feels an irrational spark of annoyance at them for causing his concern, though of course they’ve done no such thing intentionally.

The two notice him at the same time, and Christine smiles. “Hi, sir.” He sees her hesitate, perhaps wondering whether to make a jab about his tardiness, and then remain quiet.

“Hello, Miss Daaé. I apologize for being late.” With both hands, he presents her with their music for today. “I trust your friend has kept you entertained in my absence?”

“Oh my God!” The friend in question gives her no time to respond, beaming and standing up. “You must be Monsieur Erik.” She is his pupil’s aesthetic opposite, hair straight and blonde instead of dark and curly, face pale, nose small and straight. (He cannot help assessing people’s noses; when one’s own is horribly twisted and half-collapsed, anything is to envy.) The blonde, he notes with distaste, also has a fringe.

He nods politely. “I take it Miss Daaé has mentioned me.”

“All good things,” Christine says, standing herself.

“Then you are not as clever as I give you credit for, dear.” He smiles just enough to show he isn’t serious, and for whatever reason, the blonde shoots her friend a mischievous and delighted glance.

“Since Christine doesn’t have the manners to introduce me,” she says, looking back up at him, “I’ll do it myself. I’m Meg Giry—yes, _that_ Giry. Maman is a big fan of yours.” Her gregariousness is refreshing, and as she cheerfully sticks out her hand, he adds a name to the list of those who do not treat him like a creature, or a charity case, or a dictatorial villain. (Actually wanting to shake his hand! His standards are dreadfully low.)

“A pleasure, Miss Giry.” He takes care not to smile with his teeth—even with the mask on, it is a grotesque sight. “You may tell your mother that she has my admiration as well.” He takes Meg’s hand, surprised at her firm grip, and shakes.

She tips her head innocently. “Isn’t a kiss on the hand what you guys did? You know, back in the eighteen-hundreds?”

“Meg!” Christine hisses. Once again, he is amused at how ridiculously red her tan face becomes in just a second or two. For his part, he is so stunned at the little Giry’s audacity that to be offended doesn't occur to him; indeed, the barbed joke is rather funny, but on second thought, perhaps it is a good thing that his student is not _quite_ so shameless.

A moment later, it occurs to him that Meg is prodding someone in the room, but that he is the prop, not the audience. Perhaps a stunt to embarrass her friend, but why on Earth like this?

“Forgive me,” he says, not bothering to hide his incredulity. “I kiss a woman's hand if she is my friend, despite its being rather Victorian." (His only female friends are Keya Khan and possibly Adeline Giry, as of recently, but that is more than one, so it counts. Or so he tells himself.) "However, given that you are exactly half my age…”

Christine looks like she wants to die.

“We have a lesson,” she says to her friend. “I’ll see you later?” Something passes between them again, a silent conversation of which he can discern nothing but that she is not entertained, and Meg very much is.

“Sure,” she says finally. “Text me.” She holds out a hand once more to Erik, tilting her head in mock condescension. “Monsieur?”

He barely suppresses an eye-roll. “Mademoiselle.” Then, he takes her hand, bends, and presses a perfunctory kiss close to her knuckles, careful not to touch; looking supremely satisfied with herself, Meg bids them one more goodbye and then flounces out.

In the ensuing silence, Christine remains red-faced, glaring at the door.

“My," Erik remarks mildly, "What a character."

“I’m so sorry about her, sir. Really.” When their eyes meet, hers are almost pleading. “And I’m sorry for bringing her in here at all. I wasn’t sure if it was allowed, but—“

“Please.” He waves a hand. “Miss Giry is welcome wherever you are, as long as she leaves us to our lessons, hm? I’m only sorry if you were uncomfortable with our meeting.”

"About that." She takes a breath, then, looking somewhere behind his head, says, “She wasn’t, like, flirting with you, I promise." Just as her face has begun to return to normal, it flushes again. "She’s just… like that sometimes.” 

“Oh, there is no need to assure me of _that._ ” He laughs dryly. “I would never presume such a thing from a fifteen-year-old.” Or anyone, really.

“Good.” Christine does not seem comforted in the slightest. After another pause: “You’re thirty?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “It is not only women, Miss Daaé, who dislike being asked their age. But yes,” he goes on before she can apologize, “I am approximately thirty.”

Her face creases. “Did you say _approximately?”_

Yes, he has, and it’s a careless mistake. Erik presses his lips together, turns stiffly, and lifts the lid of the piano. He pretends to check inside it, as if something might be out of order. A spider may have taken up residence.

It is no concern of hers, absolutely none, but he feels her walls go down, sees, as she comes into his periphery, her eyes soften, and he has never told anyone besides Nadir, and cannot help himself.

“I know the year I was born,” he tells the piano matter-of-factly, “But not the date. It was not a… celebrated occasion in my childhood." He curls his fingers around the edge of the piano and continues to stare into it.

Erik has heard the nonsense that getting things "off one's chest" is supposed to be helpful. In fact, he does not feel better for Christine knowing that he hasn't a birthday, for the change in the room's energy as she begins to _pity_ him. Yes, he can feel it: she is resisting the urge to say _I'm so sorry,_ and he will not lash out at her, but if he did, he might say, _you of all people should know those words mean nothing._

He doesn't feel better for this vulnerability with her, not when she is essentially never vulnerable with him, for some frankly _stupid_ reason, probably because he is socially inept—which, though she doesn't think of it this way, is just a symptom of his being so deformed he cannot bear to touch his own face. He doesn't feel better for the fact that she is smarter than her years, and will surely be able to intuit that his mother despised him. If that doesn't elicit her pity, nothing will. _Poor Erik_ , she will think, because at least her parents loved her while they lived. Even as these thoughts cross his mind, he is disgusted for feeling so poisonously towards her— _she is fifteen, she is only fifteen_ —but his defensive instincts are stronger than his compassion, and he hates himself for telling her anything, and almost hates her for asking.

He is so indignant in anticipating her condolences that when her hand alights on his forearm, he turns his head sharply to her, ready to snap. The earnest look on her face stops him short.

"Um. I know this isn't the time for jokes, but that's how I cope, so..." She offers him a hesitant smile. "Until the year ends, you should definitely tell people you're twenty-nine."

With his free hand, he removes hers from his person, squeezing it reassuringly before letting go. He does not like to be touched (except for the fact that he craves it, and yet when it comes to the actual thing, he cannot stand it, and so goes his cycle of loneliness and self-isolation), but she means well.

"An excellent solution, mademoiselle." They stand in silence for another second.

"Sir?" She seems to have to steel herself for it, but she holds his gaze, and his standards really _are_ low, but he is pathetically grateful. "Did you think I was gonna say _sorry?"_

 _I wondered if you might_ would be tactful. He cannot always be tactful. "Yes."

"Would I really?" She narrows her eyes, half-joking. "Come on. You know me."

He shifts to face her. "Do I?" he asks, despite how it sounds, sensitive and immature, and a question rises in her expression. "I fear that—well. I worry that you fear me, Miss Daaé. I know you are not really a shy girl." At this, as if wanting to prove him wrong, she finally drops her gaze; he continues, voice quiet, inertia driving him on even as he knows he cannot take his loneliness out on his pupil. "And so I do not understand your shyness around me. I am trying so very hard, but I cannot do right by you if I do not know what I'm doing wrong."

It is not very cogent, but it is the truth. Christine looks at him like she is almost in pain, and he feels, with a slight illness, that he has ruined things, and will have to take her name off the list of people who see him as human.

Then, with a fierceness almost uncharacteristic: "You haven't done anything wrong. I'm the one who's being weird." The earnestness, the hurt in her features are overtaken by an obstinacy her recognizes as Nadir's and Rookheya's. "I know I apologize all the time and that makes it not mean anything, but I'm sorry, genuinely, for getting caught up with—um. I have my own—it has nothing to do—it's not your fault. God, that sounds so unconvincing, doesn't it?"

And damn it all, his heart, if he has such a thing, melts the slightest bit. It has been so long since someone new has begun to care about him.

"Rather," he murmurs, but he is smiling. He is lucky, he realizes, that the universe should grant him the kindness of her presence in his life. She cannot be close to him in the way the Khans are, but she is here, and he is the better for it.

Christine takes a deep breath, looks him straight in the eye, and says, "My being weird has nothing to do with you. Okay? I'm just insecure. I really like being your student."

So lucky. Undeserving. No, it is just a small amount of affection, he will keep his head and do it easily. Between the warmth, and the overwhelming, humiliating gratefulness that will not go away, Erik feels an unwarranted swell of pride.

"Thank you for saying so." _I very much like being your teacher,_ but he will not risk death today. "Let us be done with such serious talk, all right, my dear?" He moves to stand beside the piano bench and gestures to it. "I believe I promised you a piano lesson."

She sits down with a grin.

* * *

Christine is a damn liar, and she tries not to cry as she walks briskly out of the opera house that night. She's been denying it to Meg for weeks now, and isn't about to give up: she doesn't _like_ her teacher, not seriously, anyway.

But.

 _Dear._ _I am trying so very hard. My dear..._

His little gestures, shrugs, flicks of the wrist. When expressions do flicker across what she can see of his face, it sounds dumb, but they are such expressive expressions, and she can't help watching, waiting for them. And his lips, his _lips_ on Meg's hand, screw her for that, by the way, but not completely. How else would she know to try to imagine him kissing her knuckles like that? Anyway. She breathes the air in deep, trying to digest its coolness.

He _is_ trying, she can tell. She hates herself for freezing up every few seconds, for being so childishly overwhelmed by, Jesus, almost every little thing he does. Like showing up, without warning, in just his shirt and waistcoat and making her think—and it feels almost obscene—about how his narrow waist is very nearly feminine. Not quite, but enough that in the black silk of the vest that looks smooth as water, he's a magnet for her hands. But she will not touch him, not ever, because her hand on his solid forearm and then his hand on hers, light and firm, dry and warm, that felt so much bigger when it wrapped around hers... it was too tempting, then, to channel her inner Giry and ask for one of those little Victorian kisses, and she definitely can't do that. Then again, she thinks, there would be no consequences in flirting, if she was even entirely certain she wanted to, because he would never _presume such a thing_.

It's almost irritating. Girls probably flirt with him all the time. She's not crazy, she likes the same hot actors as everybody, and who the hell wouldn't see Erik's charm? Besides him, of course. So pretentious and so self-deprecating all at once, this paradox of a man who obviously has no idea how—no, not that. How _good_ he is. All because some cruel people who didn't deserve to be his parents refused to celebrate his birthday. It's none of her business, and she might be damned herself for thinking it, but she hopes they're burning in hell.

And because of his _face?_ How bad can it possibly be? She pictures the worst she can, an emaciated skeleton of a cheek, or skin swollen with scars about to burst and bleed. Maybe he doesn't even have a nose, just a black, gaping cavity. And it might just make her crazy after all, but as she entertains the idea of the most hideous half-face she can dream up, she's left with no feeling whatsoever, no horror, no disgust. She can only get her heart to race by imagining the brush of his sculpted lips on the back of her hand, or repeating his words in her head in his crushed-velvet voice—and then, the little rush she feels isn't from fear.

 _My dear, my dear._ God, that's the thing makes her heart hurt. Badly. Like he's reaching in and wrapping his fingers around it and squeezing it the way he did her hand. And she's a damn liar, and doing him wrong, by saying her behavior has nothing to do with him.

She doesn't _like_ him, and will not commit to that, but she is having very problematic feelings. Now, she tells herself, it's time to grow up and hide them. Mostly because if he ever speaks so softly to her again, _I am trying so very hard,_ she really will cry. And if that happens, Meg will be right, and she will be doomed. No. Nobody will ever know. If she hides it well enough, she'll probably forget about it herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our baby boy is SO BAD at having literally any emotional attachment to anyone... omfg... please calm down... :( <3 also Christine stop being weird. homegirl has just not learned to act normal around a crush huh
> 
> Erik gets parentheticals bc his brains always goin !!!!!!!!!!!!! also, i rewrote the bit with Meg a bunch of times and each time it went SUPER differently so that was fun
> 
> erik, palest motherfucker in town, apparently racist: i can't believe brown people can blush


End file.
